Random Channel Surfing

Gilbert Blythe -- both the physical image of the character I conjured up the first time I read L.M. Montgomery's classic book and the character that the recently deceased Jonathan Crombie brought to life -- has always been my ideal. I've always looked for my very own Gilbert. In both the book and the adaptations, he's a steadfast friend, lover, husband, father; he's loyal to a fault; he's patient; he's ambitious and intelligent; he's kind and determined; he's compassionate and devoted; he's witty and wry. Basically, he has all the qualities I hope to find in a man . Physically, Gilbert Blythe shaped who I am attracted to. I often prefer brown haired men. I get lost in hazel eyes. I admire tall men for their poise (despite the fact I insist that I prefer short men). On Saturday night, just as I was finishing the dinner they served at Chantal and Ryan's wedding reception, I received a series of texts from Clea. She was texting to tell me th...

I'm currently in another one of those one-sided infatuations and it sucks. Honestly. It used to be that I used to live for the rush of liking unattainable people because it was nice to like them from afar. After all, liking someone from afar means that I'm safe; safe from rejection, safe from heartache, safe from forming actual attachments to them. I like safe. Safe is good. But now, for once in my life, I wish I could like someone who wants me too. For once, I'm wondering aloud, why can't I like someone who's single or someone I've exchanged more than a handful of awkward sentences with?  I'm bemoaning, why can't I notice someone who's non-famous or knows I exist? Why can't I why can't I? And yeah. I'm fairly self-aware and know that I hate admitting when I'm interested in dating someone. And I don't just mean admitting that I find a person attractive, or gathering the courage to ask them out for coffee, or plucking the s...

Whenever I log onto Facebook, I'm overcome by the urge to delete my profile. There really isn't any reason why I stay on that site; it's not like I talk to anyone. Really, the only time I log on is when Tamara tells me she's posted something new on my wall. Having said that, I present you with my thoughts on the most un-hip of social media. The thoughts from a facebook apathist, if you will. (Apathist is not a word, I know, but I'm apathetic about facebook, hence the title... get it? Yeah, I'm not clever, but I've never claimed I was...) Maybe it's because I'm addicted to tumblr or because I figure if I want to stay in touch with people, I'll text or email or go see them. I'm not big on the technology and clutter and hassle of facebook. ... There's also the whole "stalking" part of it, too. That unavoidable urge to look up past loves and friends. It's just so... invasive and creepy and, try as I might, I still want to look t...

How irresponsible would it be if I never come back from Montreal in June? Like, on a scale from one to ten, where one is "model daughter/friend/employee" and ten is "irresponsibly immature and self-centered"? 'Cause I can see myself "missing" my return flight home.

Being self-aware enables me to really know myself. My thoughts and fears and desires. Even the ones I wish weren't mine. But it would be easier to live in denial. To ignore that I'm so stubborn I often ruin things that I love. To forget how much I fear the sting of rejection. To deny that I do want someone that knows me inside and out in my life. After all, there's truth to that old saying, "Ignorance is bliss."

It's Janis and Wyatt's annual Christmas party. I'm quite stoked, actually. It will be great seeing my girls. Not to mention all our other friends, hahaha. What I'm most pumped for, though, is playing dress-up! I know I could dress all girly and do my makeup and hair all fancy whenever I want to, but I never have a reason to. My mother would say that that's silly. That we dress the way we want to and you should dress up if you feel like it. I agree with my mom. Really, I do. But it takes so much energy. And this is that awkward moment I let you all in on a secret: I'm a scrub. Truth. Bomb.

While going through my email, I saw a slew of emails from my former program advisor at school. She'd forwarded us some information on a contest for a novella. Now, I've said this millions of times before, but I'm a coward. Yellow livered. Rubber spined. Squeamish. The fear of rejection for something as sacred as my writing is terrifying. And I know. Okay? I know. Every single one of my professors warned us that we'd face rejection more times than we can count. They guaranteed it. And it's that certainty that cripples me. Why would I, a girl who for all intents and purposes avoids the very idea of confrontation, submit myself to rejection? It goes against my very character. But the braver, determined side of me is pissed off at my unwillingness. It's losing patience and has started pacing and glaring in my direction. I get it, Self. I get it. I should fucking woman up (HA!) and face my fears. Just because failure is certain, doesn't mean I should let fear di...

One of my absolute favourite things is reading reviews for other people's work. Reading how happy or inspired or awed someone feels after reading a particular work of literature fills me with happiness, inspiration and awe. There are so many naturally talented people out there and --- and oh, how I wish I were one of them.

I really like Glee. But lately, even with my love for this show, I can't bring myself to watch certain episodes. It hurts too much. I wish I was writing the show---not because I'd do a better job, but because I'd be watching the story unfold the way I want it to. *sigh* I'm so mind-blowingly pathetic. But such is life.